Control
by TehAwesomeMae
Summary: Belarus is a dominatrix, and her only dream is to subdue her wonderful big brother Russia. A peek into Belarus's mind. One-shot; some sexual actions/suggestions - no actual sex, sorry ; that's the way Belarus rolls


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia**

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Belarus was bored, although the teary-eyed heap before her was her favorite. She was one of the few Belarus did not blindfold. She had such pretty, purple, expressive eyes, just like his, which would scrunch up beautifully in pain, the wrinkles crawling all the way to her nose. The tears made those marvelous purple orbs, so like his, sparkle and reflect on themselves, transforming into a pair of frozen, bottomless lakes of pain and pleasure. Her lovely pale skin, just like his, but so easily bruised, proudly flaunted the darker splotches around her neck and breasts, the loving memories of previous nights. Her collar was that special beige of his scarf and just a touch too tight, so you could see the mark clearly even on the rare occasion that she was allowed to take it off. Her voice was wrong, too low, too feminine, but that really was not the problem. After all, the stifled moans that escaped from her gag could have easily come from anyone. But no matter how obedient her favorite may be, Belarus was still hopelessly bored. No suit could conceal the girl's slight, curvy form, which had used to give her mistress so much pleasure. Belarus sighed and pushed the girl away.

"I am bored of you. But no self-pleasure or self-pain until I call you again."

Interrupting in the middle like this would probably only give the girl an even more exquisite time. She was an obedient girl, she would not touch herself until Belarus next called her, which may be in a day, a week, a month, it did not really matter.

"And that gag stays on until Wednesday."

The girl looked up at her, pleading and annoyance, adoration and frustration pouring out of those enchanting purple eyes all at once as the scorned girl backed out of the room. Belarus considered calling in one of her boys. They may not have the gorgeous translucent skin and the mesmerizing purple eyes, but they had the build, the tall, muscular stature that she so longed to restrain. But no, not even they would be enough. She had many slaves, and she _did_ enjoy playing with them. But no matter how many called her "Mistress," she could never be satisfied without him.

_Russia._

Oh, he was perfect. A towering hulk, always concealed, protected, hiding behind those layers. His height, his breadth, his aura, his reputation, everything about him was intimidating. A wayward glance from him was enough to make a person kneel before him, groveling for forgiveness for all and any crimes, pleading for mercy. The incredible pleasure in his eyes when he talks to the pathetic, sniveling Lithuania or follows the wisely distrusting China warns all others to stay away as it bleeds control, insanity, power, and a childish pleasure in inflicting pain. Everyone fears him and everyone avoids him, wary of his power and his potential.

She wanted him so badly.

He was the epitome of strength, power, fear, and control. How wonderful it would be to see this man subordinated, groveling at her feet. First she would get rid of all that clothing, strip him of his protective layers, that thick beige coat and impeding black gloves, she would take it all off, one by one, like chipping away at the shell of a turtle. Of course, she would leave the scarf for last. His darling scarf, given by his _adorable _older sister. He claimed it could never be taken off, as it was one of his appendages. If so, even better, as she would get to tear off the infected limb to save her beloved older brother from those perverse dreams of busty Ukrainians. He need not worry, she would give him something much better. She had been saving a special collar for him, and it was not a mundane beige like that ratty scarf. He was worth so much more than that. It was a glorious purple, nearly as beautiful as his eyes, with blood-red crystals. He would love it, she knew, and never even think of that tattered, filthy scarf. After all, he would be hers.

Oh, yes, he would be hers. She would need to subdue him, he would definitely be rebellious, but she loved the rebellious ones. She had a suit ready for him, hard leather that even he could not break, hoops and hooks all around so she could stretch and twist and suspend him however she desired, open enough so he could struggle, writhe in exquisite pain, but closed enough so every move would only bring more discomfort, every attempt to escape would just end in another lash or prick. He would learn soon enough. She would be his mistress, his lover, his wife, and he could not escape her. He would become willing, he would bend to her commands.

She would never blindfold him. Those powerful, threatening eyes would be reduced, like the girl's, to a pair of ice pools and a net of pained, pleasured wrinkles. Just the thought gave her shudders. What wouldn't she do to see the heavy, threatening aura that radiated from them transformed to a subdued servitude, an acknowledged belonging. When that happened, when he accepted he was hers, then the fun would really start.

He would have to follow all her rules. She would forbid him spirits. He would only get vodka if he groveled, and even then, he would only get what he could lick and suck out of a spilled stain on a thick carpet. She would mercilessly humiliate him, see the beautiful, proud man crying for her, because of her. And of course she would rarely allow him the pleasure of an orgasm. She had a gorgeous nine-inch, steel prostate milking stick with a lovely, polished inch and a half diameter head, just for him, to keep him fine and healthy. He would only get the exquisite gratification of an actual orgasm when he had been very, very good. Maybe as a reward for needle play, especially if he does it himself. Always, she would get him crawling, begging both for her to stop and for her to keep going forever. Oh, all the fun she would have with her _dear_ older brother.

And yet, maybe, just once, she would be willing to submit. She had never submitted to anyone, she craved the control, needed the power, and could not trust anyone enough to leave herself in their hands. But for Russia… She had complete faith in him, and for him, she would be willing, though only once, to lay down her superiority and kneel. She would follow his every whim, and under the reassuring, demanding gaze of his compelling eyes, she would even lay down her freedom and be bound. Only he, with his contained, violent might, was worthy of subjugating her.

Yes, she decided, it was only fair that he should be allowed at least a day of control and power. That's what love is, after all, surrendering your fears, granting that someone your explicit trust and devotion. And she loved her brother.

_Marry me, big brother Russia._

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**So this is a bit different from my other fic... I hope you enjoyed it!**

**I don't actually have experience with bdsm, and now my computer history has some rather incriminating searches from my research. Fingers crossed my parents never check? But yes, if you actually do have experience and want to correct any glaring falsehoods/inaccuracies in my fic, please feel free to pm me! **

**Have a lovely day! I wish you a nice, cool day if it has been hot for the last week or so, or a wonderfully warm and sunny day if it has been cold lately. We can all use a change in pace, hm?**


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